


In Her Hands

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Resurrection, Trauma, brief nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Gandalf told Aragorn and friends a short version of how he returned. It was all he had time for. But of course, there was more to the story.
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1: Coming Back

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien

**In Her Hands**

His eyes snapped open, and he drew a sudden, ragged gasp into lungs he wasn't sure he could even feel. Power swirled around him, power and white snow. He inhaled again, struggling to breathe. His mind felt, blank, as cold as the snow beneath him. _Where...am_ _I?_

A fragment of broken memory. _'You_ _will_ _return,_ _Olorin._ _The_ _task_ _you_ _were_ _set_ _is_ _not_ _yet_ _done._ _Return_ _to_ _Middle_ _Earth...'_

Another ragged breath. Middle Earth. He had been sent back. Memory trickled back, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught. Companions on the road. Companions in Moria, in the dark. Battle through the tunnels. Darkness incarnate, in the form of the Balrog. His body shuddered under the mere thought, wrenching a groan of new and remembered pain from him. Pain and anguish. _Frodo._ _Aragorn._ _Sam._ _Pippin._ _Merry._ _Boromir._ _Gimli._ _Legolas._ _Did_ _you_ _live?_

He shivered again. He both froze and burned. Burned, in the swirling power as his body was remade, re-knit from the ruin of his old form. Healed and granted new strength. Froze, lying in the snow. Snow on his bare skin, his naked body, both blessing and agony at once. A name echoed in his mind. _Galadriel..._ Galadriel, seer and lady of Lothlorien. _Old_ _friend..._

He lay upon the mountaintop. Slowly, his senses returned. Sharper than before, more powerful. He was still far too weak to move, even if he could have borne it. He shivered against the snow, grateful for it's numbing quality and yet frightened by how little he could feel of himself. Instead of his body, his mortal form, his senses stretched over Middle-Earth, and he fell into a vast lake of awareness.

Bright spots, which he knew instinctively. _Imladris._ _Lothlorien._ Flickering lights, dimmer but still there. _Rohan._ _The_ _White_ _City._ _Mirkwood._ _The_ _Lonely_ _Mountain._ _The_ _Shire._ That last gave him warmth, though he felt too raw to truly comprehend why.

Points of darkness, which burned him in a torment not unlike the Balrog's fire. _Mordor._ _Orthanc._ _The_ _Mines_ _of_ _Moria..._ He shuddered under the onslaught, unable to break away as awareness poured over him. Pain and warmth, light and dark, washed over him. The stars and sun slipped past his eyes, and he heard distant star-song, the whispers of the earth through the mountain. The whispers of air and water in the snow. The movements of men and elves and others through the subtle rumblings and vibrations of the world. He felt the advancing tendrils of the darkness, the small glimmerings of the light. His mind held onto it, striving to find the patterns, to understand why he had been returned. The task that must be done. He knew he understood it, or had, standing on the Far Shore. Perhaps even before he had fallen. But the wrenching of life to death and return was agony and confusion, even for one such as he. Olorin. He had another name, he knew, and he sought it in his mind, struggling to grasp it and hold it, to anchor himself.

Sun-fire burned across him, even though he felt no true warmth. Starlight and moonlight cloaked him, shining gently upon his nakedness, soothing the wracked strain of his mind, though the darkness made him shudder anew. Vague memories of falling, of passing through nightmares assaulted him, making him moan in an agony of spirit that had nothing to do with his still healing body.

Time passed, but he had no reckoning of it. He had lost that, in the fall, in the battle, in the journey and the return. He had not the strength to count the days, nor even the will, his mind still trying to put itself to rights. _Galadriel...old_ _friend..._

Shadow darkened his vision, a shadow not of clouds or of night. Seconds later, a familiar presence touched the snow beside him. _'Mithrandir...'_

He knew the voice, and his mind responded. _'Gwaihir...'_

There was no more that needed to be said. Great talons flexed, then folded gently around him, lifting him from the snow. He shivered at the touch, shuddered under the assault of contact with another living being. Then vast wings swept upward and the eagle launched himself from the snow, holding him. A second set of claws surrounded his lower body, gentle talons on exposed flesh, and cold wind as Gwaihir beat his wings to gain altitude. But the air was hardly colder than the snow upon which he had lain.

Released from the Earth, the terrible pounding flow of awareness lessened. Gwaihir's warmth slowly eased the numbness that encased him. He found another thought, another memory. _'I_ _am_ _ever_ _fated_ _to_ _be_ _your_ _burden,_ _friend_ _in_ _need.'_

A gentle laugh in his mind, but touched with concerned seriousness. _'Burden_ _you_ _have_ _been,_ _but_ _not_ _now._ _You_ _are_ _light_ _as_ _a_ _swan's_ _feather_ _in_ _my_ _claws._ _The sun shines through you._ _Almost_ _I_ _would_ _believe_ _that_ _if_ _I_ _dropped_ _you,_ _you_ _would_ _simply_ _float_ _upon_ _the_ _wind.'_

Terror seized him, the memory of another fall into darkness. The feel of Gwaihir's claws suddenly anchored him, in a way even his name had not done. He felt his heart pounding, blood flowing. Cold, and heat, and the pain of returning, but life and self still. He gasped. _'No,_ _I_ _beg_ _you._ _Do_ _not_ _let_ _me_ _fall._ _Bear_ _me...bear_ _me_ _to_ _Lothlorien.'_ Imladris was too far, but Lothlorien was a place of healing as well. And Galadriel...seer and friend.

_'I_ _shall._ _It_ _was_ _on_ _the_ _orders_ _of_ _the_ _Lady_ _Galadriel_ _that_ _I_ _sought_ _you._ _And_ _her_ _request_ _also,_ _that_ _I_ _bear_ _you_ _thence.'_ There was a promise of safety in that stern voice, the voice of the mountain lord, and his heart stopped pounding. He sent a feeling of gratitude, and felt warm regard in turn. _'Rest_ _safe,_ _old_ _friend,_ _until_ _we_ _arrive._ _I_ _shall_ _take_ _you_ _as_ _quickly_ _as_ _I_ _can_ _fly.'_

He relaxed in the eagle's talons. His body was limp, still frozen, though he could feel now. His face was upturned to the sky. He had neither strength nor will to turn it toward the ground. He was grateful for the lessening awareness of the earth, the returning awareness of life and self. Memory washed over him. Mithrandir. Gray Pilgrim. There was another name, another name he had been called, by those he held in his heart, but he could not grasp it.

_'We_ _are_ _coming_ _to_ _the_ _halls_ _of_ _Lothlorien,_ _my_ _friend._ _Do_ _not_ _fear,_ _when_ _I_ _descend.'_ The words broke the trance upon him. He looked down. Green woods spread below him, the mallorn trees of the Wood. The great tree, where the halls of Lothlorien, the home of it's lord and lady, had been formed, stood at the center. The heart of the realm. A gentle smile touched his face. Safety. Peace. Healing.

Gwaihir's flight changed, as he felt the eagle homing on on a particular section of the tree. His eyes made out an isolated bier, and two small figures. As if his gaze had been a signal, a gentle, feminine voice touched his mind. ' _Mithrandir._ _You_ _have_ _returned.'_

_'I_ _have.'_ It was all the answer he had strength for.

Gwaihir swooped in low, slowing himself gently. He gasped as the talons released him, but barely had to time to fall before strong arms caught him, cradled him. Celeborn, master of Lothlorien, held him carefully, then turned and walked to the bed in the center of the bier, and lowered him into it. He shivered again, at the feel of silken sheets against his flesh. Galadriel stepped forward, and gently, tenderly, drew another sheet over him, covering him. Another, thicker cover was pulled over that, encasing him in warmth, without trapping him. He relaxed into the feeling.

_'You_ _are_ _safe_ _now,_ _my_ _friend.'_ Gwaihir's voice once more. _'I_ _must_ _return_ _to_ _my_ _eyrie._ _But_ _know,_ _you_ _may_ _call_ _upon_ _me_ _whenever_ _you_ _have_ _need._ _I_ _will_ _keep_ _watch_ _over_ _you,_ _my_ _friend.'_ Then the eagle wheeled and was gone.

Gentle hands touched him, tilted his shoulders up to pour soothing liquid down his throat. “Rest, Mithrandir.'

He had to know. “The Company...” His voice was so weak, but it was _his_ voice, at long last, and it provided another tie, another connection to the world.

“They passed through Lothlorien quite recently.” Celeborn's voice was low and calm, reassuring. “We tended their wounds, gave counsel as we could, and saw them as well-provisioned as we could manage.”

“Are they...” He did not know what questions he wished to ask.

Galadriel spoke in her low, haunting tones. “They were yet whole, when they departed.” There were undercurrents there, dark ones, but he could not hold them in his mind.

“Frodo...” His heart ached for the young hobbit and his friends, thrust into this nightmare, and now without even his aid.

“He struggles with the Ring, but yet withstands it. Enough even to offer it up to another.” Grim amusement in the lady's tone. “However...his companion's hearts are true, and strong. There is yet hope, for you and your desires, Mithrandir.” She touched his face, a quieting, gentle gesture. “The gardener tends his master well, and while he stands, hope is not yet lost.”

“Samwise.” he would have laughed, if he could. But he was exhausted, and power yet burned through him.

“He is quite inquisitive. We gave him a box of soil and seeds...for which I deem he will be a truer guardian than we could have ever asked for.” Celeborn's voice was also amused, but calming.

“Rest.” Galadriel's hand brushed his jaw, then down to his covered hands. “Time is short, but there is time enough for healing. Rest, Mithrandir, and speak when your heart is lighter and refreshed.”

He felt a wave of relief that she had read his condition aright. A small nod, and he relaxed into the pillows. He felt them step away, and the light was dimmed, though it did not go altogether. He was grateful for that, as he relaxed into the first true sleep he could remember having since his return.

He slept, dreamed. Remembered. Remembered again the last moments of his previous life. He remembered falling, falling in the dark with the Balrog's flame around him.

_The_ _fire_ _of_ _Middle_ _Earth_ _could_ _not_ _harm_ _him,_ _but_ _the_ _Balrog_ _was_ _different._ _And_ _he_ _burned,_ _fire_ _licking_ _across_ _him,_ _bringing_ _pain_ _The_ _long,_ _terrible_ _fall._ _Loosing_ _his_ _staff,_ _because_ _he_ _could_ _not_ _lose_ _his_ _sword._

_Then_ _the_ _lake._ _The_ _impact._ _It_ _should_ _have_ _been_ _fatal._ _Would_ _have_ _been,_ _save_ _the_ _Balrog_ _hit_ _first._ _Icy_ _shock._ _Pain_ _and_ _impact,_ _even_ _with_ _what_ _protection_ _he_ _could_ _muster._ _A_ _wild,_ _thrashing_ _battle,_ _his_ _opponent_ _now_ _icy_ _cold_ _and_ _strangling._ _Wings_ _and_ _whip_ _and_ _coiling_ _arms_ _and_ _fanged_ _mouth,_ _fighting_ _in_ _the_ _dark._ _The_ _only_ _light_ _the_ _feeble_ _eldritch_ _flame_ _he_ _could_ _conjure,_ _and_ _dared_ _not_ _use_ _too_ _freely._ _Slashing_ _out,_ _fighting_ _on_ _instinct_ _with_ _an_ _opponent_ _he_ _could_ _only_ _half_ _see._ _The_ _sound_ _of_ _heavy,_ _shuffling,_ _running_ _feet,_ _running_ _in_ _the_ _dark._

_Following._ _No_ _choice,_ _and_ _in_ _the_ _Balrog's_ _flight_ _he_ _too_ _sensed_ _the_ _watchers_ _in_ _the_ _dark._ _Nameless_ _things._ _Old_ _things._ _Terrible._ _He_ _ran_ _with_ _his_ _opponent,_ _not_ _for_ _blood,_ _but_ _for_ _escape._ _Running,_ _desperation._ _He_ _could_ _not_ _lose_ _his_ _opponent._ _Stumbling,_ _scrabbling._ _Attacks,_ _just_ _to_ _delay_ _long_ _enough_ _to_ _catch_ _up._ _Then_ _climbing,_ _climbing._ _Deep_ _driven_ _tunnels,_ _wild_ _underground_ _crags._ _Then_ _the_ _stair,_ _the_ _endless_ _stair._ _And_ _endless_ _it_ _had_ _seemed_ _as_ _he_ _raced_ _up_ _it._ _Weariness._ _Awareness_ _of_ _wounds,_ _though_ _he_ _could_ _not_ _tend_ _them._ _There_ _was_ _nothing_ _to_ _be_ _done._

_The_ _top_ _of_ _the_ _mountain._ _Driving_ _snow._ _New_ _fire_ _from_ _the_ _Balrog._ _Desperate_ _battle_ _on_ _the_ _peaks._ _Reaching_ _for_ _power_ _that_ _he_ _had_ _no_ _strength_ _to_ _use._ _The_ _sword_ _shone_ _bright_ _in_ _his_ _hand,_ _strong_ _still,_ _but_ _he_ _was_ _failing._ _Summoning_ _his_ _own_ _fire,_ _as_ _it_ _was._ _In_ _some_ _ways_ _a_ _match,_ _but_ _he_ _was_ _tired,_ _nearly_ _spent,_ _and_ _mortal_ _formed._ _The_ _final,_ _last_ _desperate_ _reach_ _for_ _the_ _lightning._ _Lightning_ _he_ _could_ _no_ _longer_ _truly_ _hold,_ _but_ _it_ _was_ _his_ _only_ _hope._ _Lunging_ _forward,_ _an_ _all_ _or_ _nothing_ _strike,_ _breaking_ _even_ _as_ _he_ _struck._ _Fire,_ _lightning_ _and_ _Balrog_ _fire,_ _and_ _impact._ _Then_ _his_ _enemy_ _fell_ _away,_ _and_ _the_ _mountain_ _shuddered_ _and_ _cracked_ _around_ _him._ _And_ _he_ _fell,_ _into_ _the_ _dark._

_He walked along dark roads. The boundaries of the world. The realm of the ring-wraiths, though he was not as they were, nor was he under their masters power. They paid him no heed. Darker roads still, to the heart of Mordor and farther. Then light. Light, until finally he stood upon the Western shore. The white sands and the crystal sea. The far green land. Home. Peace. Speech with his kindred. And then he fell into darkness once more._

He woke in the darkness, tears upon his face at the lingering dream memory of the Western Shores, and the peace that he had felt there. Fire burned through him still, not the nightmare fire of his dreams, but his own power still adapting to his mortal shell. Then a cool cloth was laid upon his brow with kind hands. “Be at ease.” Galadriel. A gentle hand brushed the tears from his cheeks, soothed his suffering. Slowly, the fires eased, banked and settled. At long last, he felt whole, in body if not in mind, restored somewhat to himself.

He opened his eyes in the dimly lit darkness, to find the Lady of Lothlorien standing beside him. She held out a glass of water. “Will you have something?”

He nodded. “I thank you.” His voice was rough in his ears, but stronger than it had been. He let her draw him into a sitting position, and sipped at the glass that was placed to his lips. Cool water, sweet water of Lothlorien's springs, slid down his throat, flowing through him. It was refreshing, after the burn of inner fire. He drained the glass, at her urging. She started to release him to lie back, and he managed to get his arms under him. “I should like to remain awake a while, if I may.”

“As you wish.” She stepped away from him, to set the glass down, then helped him ease into a sitting position on the bed. He was startled to feel that he had been clad in loose sleepwear while he rested. A fine linen shirt, and loose pants. It comforted him, solid proof that he had been rescued, that he did not dream her presence, lying in delirium upon the mountain.

He looked up into the pale face, surrounded by golden hair. She looked weary, worn, and grieved, though oddly peaceful, as if she had faced and passed some test he did not know of. “I am sorry to have disturbed your rest my lady.”

Her smile did away with formality. “You did not.” She settled lightly into a chair beside him. “Sleep is an uneasy companion, in these days.”

“So it is.” It would be for her and for Elrond as it was for him, he thought. Awareness. She and the half-elven lord were both seers, and in dark times, they used their powers unchecked, seeking the pathway to restore the world. And these were dark days indeed.

He sought something simple to stay. The night was no time for discussing the weighty matters that lay upon his heart, and likely upon hers. He looked down at the shirt they had clothed him in. “White is not my color.” Mithrandir. Gray Pilgrim.

A sad smile touched her face, and she reached out to run fingers through his hair. “And yet...you are no longer gray.” With a start, he realized the strands she ran her fingers through were white as snow and the insides of stars.

_'Sauruman_ _has_ _fallen._ _You_ _now_ _will_ _be_ _our_ _representative_ _upon_ _Middle_ _Earth._ _Bear_ _our_ _presence_ _well...'_ Another fragment of memory, and understanding. Five had come to Middle-Earth's shores. Only one had retained access to their true powers, their true essence. The essence of spirit, of light. The others had taken the other elements. Radaghast of Earth. And himself...gray, wanderer like the wind but with the essence of fire, he had been. But Sauruman's light had dimmed, been broken, and fallen into the darkness. The others he had broken, as he sought to break the world at Sauron's side. Only he was left. “No...I am no longer gray.” _'I_ _have_ _returned,_ _as_ _Sauruman_ _should_ _have_ _remained.'_

“You will face him.” The words were no question, a simple statement of fact. And truth, he knew. At some point, some part of his task would involve bringing his wayward kinsman to atonement for his fall. But he could not think of that, just yet. Could not bear to think of it.

She saw his pain, and acknowledged it with a slight nod. “You should rest. Your healing is not yet complete.” A gentle hand touched his shoulder, urging him back. “Sleep. We shall speak of Frodo and the company, and all that you desire to know, when next you wake.”

He let her ease him into the pillows. The pain had passed, and he was fully bound to the world, and his mortal body, once more. But he needed rest, needed to order his thoughts, calm his mind, control his awareness. He sank back, and allowed himself to return to slumber.

He awoke with sunlight in his eyes, warming his blankets. Celeborn was standing vigil by his side. He moved to push himself into a sitting position. Celeborn assisted him, guiding him upward. “Thank you.”

Celeborn smiled. It was a rare sight, but it was a warm and generous expression. “Galadriel informed me that you awoke in the night, and are much restored to us.”

“Yes.” He felt stronger. More than that, he no longer felt so tenuously connected to the world. He could feel his heart beating, the breath entering and leaving his lungs, the linen and silk beneath his hands. The sunlight that entered the openings in the bier. The awareness of the world he had borne was still there, but lessened, not much stronger than his other senses, easier to ignore or to work with. He felt calm, relaxed. “I am recovered.”

“That is most excellent news. I have much desired to speak with you.” Celeborn looked at the light streaming around them. “It shall soon be noon. Will you join us?”

He nodded. “I would be honored.”

Another of those slow smiles graced Celeborn's face. “As would we.” He turned away, exiting the rooms. Moments later, another elf entered, and laid a stack of clean garments upon his bed.

Rising was more difficult than he expected. He had not moved voluntarily, save to sit up, since he had fallen on the mountain's peak. There was no weakness to him, but the movements felt oddly unfamiliar. Still he managed, noting his body had been cleaned as he rested, most likely when they had dressed him. Carefully, he rose, drew the sleeping garments off, and began to dress. The robes were white, far more elegant than anything he had worn before. They should have felt unnatural, and yet, they fit him perfectly. He looked into the mirror in the corner of the room, and saw his own reflection, white haired and clad in flowing white robes. _'You_ _will_ _bear_ _our_ _presence_ _in_ _Middle-Earth.'_ No longer the Gray Pilgrim. He shivered in understanding and left the room.

Celeborn was waiting, on the wide platform they used as walkways here in the upper homes of Lorien. He followed the eleven lord along the path, to the larger dwelling space he recognized as the abode of the lord and lady of the wood. Celeborn bowed him politely inside. Galadriel stood waiting, a small table laid out for the three of them.

He nodded, sat down to eat with them. Celeborn offered him a plate of mixed fruits, and he helped himself with a nod, suddenly ravenous. He could not recall when before his fall he had last taken food. He let Galadriel fill his cup with sweet water, and filled his plate near to overflowing. He was a bit ashamed of his own manners, but he saw the gentle understanding upon his hosts face. The food helped him, settled him in a way he hadn't really been aware he needed. He ate, the others joining him at table, until he was full, then sat back to sip at his glass. Wine replaced the water, and a gesture invited him to move to a comfortable balcony sitting area, over-looking the mallorn grove, with it's homes and artificial gardens, carefully situated around the natural landscape. A beautiful place, one of peace and comfort.

It was Galadriel who broke the silence around them. “You wished to know of your companions.”

He nodded. “I do.”

She gazed over the trees. Celeborn spoke softly. “The orcs of Moria pursued them very briefly at our borders, but not beyond.” He paused. “We sent them down the river, in boats. I believe they planned ride the river to the falls, then disembark and continue eastward.”

“A good plan.” He hesitated a moment. “Who now leads the Company?”

“Elessar leads. Aragorn the Ranger.” Celeborn spoke calmly. “A good leader, I believe he will do well by them.”

“He will.” Aragorn was a born leader, he had known it since his first meeting with the man, long ago. He was strong, and brave, and he had a good head on his shoulders. “And the company? How did they fare, when last you saw them?”

“Darkness walks with the man of Gondor.” Galadriel's voice was low, soft. “Darkness born of desperation and of fear. I cannot say if he will conquer it or no.”

He sighed. He had known that Boromir was probably the least safe of them, save perhaps Frodo. The hobbits were nearly impossible to corrupt, in their innocence and earthy, practical ways. Aragorn was at risk, in his way, but he had spent long years in battle against the dark, and knew the peril better than his cousin of Gondor. Legolas was protected by his elven nature, though it wasn't a perfect defense. Gimli was strong. He thought they would be safe. Still, he had to ask. “The others?”

“Elessar resists, I do not think he will fall. My kinsman has nothing to worry you. As for the Dwarf...he has chosen the light, after all.” A small, secret smile curved the lady's lips. He wondered at it, but it was between her and the dwarf. If ever either chose to reveal what had passed between them, that was their affair. He saw a small smile of amusement, and tolerance, on Celeborn's face.

“The Halflings?” Nearest and dearest to him, though the others were precious as well.

Celeborn's smile broadened. “They are a stout hearted folk. Hardy and strong, despite appearances. For all they appear harmless, I would say it was well done to send them.”

Galadriel nodded, though her smile had dimmed. “Frodo struggles with the Ring, but yet commands his heart. The darkness grows inside him, but he resists it still, and will resist it to the end, I feel. To that end, I have given him the light of Earendil, to guide his way.”

The light of Earendil...no small gift. A treasured power of the elves. He exhaled, understanding in his heart what it meant. The light was both guide and protection for the young hobbit. Frodo was in more peril than he realized, but as long as he could wield that precious starlight, he would survive, at least. “And his companions?”

“They remain true. Steadfast to the end. Especially Samwise.” Her eyes were far away. “It is in my mind that he, of all, may be the greatest hope in Frodo's quest. His heart is pure, and willing, and he is loyal to his master. Till the death. I have seen it in his eyes.”

Relief swept over him. He had thought the same, when he had first told Sam to accompany Frodo. He had thought it again in Rivendell, watching the gardener by his master. But trial and danger could fracture even greater friendships, and he had no certainty. Any such feeling had been stripped from him at Sauruman's betrayal. He had been less sure of Merry and Pippen, of including such wild mischief makers and relative innocents in the quest, but his heart had told him that, like Gollum, they had some part to play.

“They are strong. And in a different way than any other race.” Truth. He had watched them for years, and never understood what it was that made them so resilient. No bigger than children, raised in an insular community to a simple lifestyle, and he had known brave, seasoned warriors who couldn't hold a candle to them.

“They are strong. And that strength will be the ending, or the saving of the world.” Galadriel met his eyes with her own knowing ones, and feelings flashed between them. Her awareness of them, her insight, and his knowledge.

“So it appears.” He sighed, rose and walked to the balcony. Myriad feelings tugged at him. He longed to follow Frodo but his heart felt it was no longer his quest. He had known when the Ring passed from Bilbo to Frodo, he had known what was right and wrong. He felt it, in his heart, that the Ring had passed from his hands. A relief in a way, especially with what he had now become, and yet, it left him with an aching sense of fear for the Ringbearer, whom he loved so well. Aragorn would guide them well, as well as he could, and would follow his wishes, but it was a terrible and heavy burden.

“What will you do, Mithrandir?” Celeborn's voice. “Will you pursue the Ring?”

“I do not know.” And he did not. His mind drifted back, to the things he had seen and felt and heard, stripped of everything but awareness upon the mountain. Points of light. The encroaching dark. That was his task now. His heart whispered that he was not finished with the company and yet, he felt the pull of other things as well. He was not sure what to do.

Celeborn spoke again. “If you cannot speak of what will be done, can you not speak of what has happened. Your companions said you fell in Moria. In combat with a Balrog.”

“Do not speak that name!” Memory overwhelmed him. Falling. Fire. Burning pain. Frozen water in the darkness of the world. Agony. Pursuit without hope. Drawing the lightning. Torment, mind and body, until finally they both fell, broken. Despair and fading.

He felt his power gathering around him, fierce and violent, and drew it back, tempering and controlling it. He opened his eyes to see Celeborn and Galadriel watching him warily. “My apologies, to both of you.”

Celeborn shook his head, wordlessly. Galadriel moved forward, to brush his forehead and trace his cheekbones with one hand. “You have suffered greatly.”

He nodded. There was little else to be said. “I have.”

She continued to gaze at him, and he let her. He could not speak of what had happened, not yet, but he knew her perception would tell her enough, and she could tell Celeborn, if she chose.

She spoke again, voice haunting. “You fell through fire, and water. Into the darkness of the world. And returned.” Her eyes searched his. “You vanquished him.”

“And was all but destroyed myself.” She nodded, and he saw understanding in her eyes. He had walked the dark roads, and the road to the Western Shore. He didn't know which was more difficult to speak of. The dark roads had been terrible, but the grief of leaving behind the peace of the Western Shore was an ache he was not sure he could bear.

She nodded. “You should rest.” Dusk was gathering. It would be a long while until true night, but he could not deny he felt weary. His most desperate questions had been answered.

Celeborn rose. “I will return you to your quarters.” He nodded, followed the elven lord back to the secluded bier high in the treetops. At the door, Celeborn stopped. “You have my apologies, Mithrandir. I did not mean to reopen your wounds.”

He nodded, understanding. “And you have mine. I did not mean to react so violently.” Celeborn graced him with a single nod of acknowledgment, then left him to his rest.

He woke again in the night, alone this time. After a moment, he rose, and looked over the hidden city of Lothlorien. The mallorn trees glowed softly in the night. The sight soothed him. He let himself sink into light meditation, standing there, allowing the peace of Lothlorien to sink into his spirit. He did not know how long he stood there, but it was only when he swayed with weariness that he permitted himself to return to his bed and fall into a restful slumber.


	2. Chapter: Decisions Made

He rose in the morning, rested and relaxed, and more clear-headed than he could remember being. Old memory and new fused together in him, and he felt...not less torn, but more sure, more understanding of both purpose, and limits. He stood again at the railing and took a deep breath, settling himself for the tasks he saw before him. None would be easy. He was not even sure how to accomplish them, particularly without aid. But it must be done, and his heart whispered that unlooked-for aid would be found, if he only went. In the meantime....He reached out with his mind, reaching for two souls he knew he would need the aid of, to even begin.

There was less effort in the summons than he recalled. He touched the minds of his chosen assistants, felt assent from each, gave his thanks and withdrew. When he returned his awareness to the balcony on which he stood, an hour had passed, and he was hungry. He thought a moment, then descended the stairs.

It was no surprise that Galadriel and Celeborn awaited him. Nor when the elven lord gestured for him to join them at table. He nodded his thanks at them, and served himself, less ravenously this time.

They ate in silence once more. It was only as they settled back, sipping their drinks, that Galadriel spoke. “Your eyes are clearer.” He nodded. “You have chosen your path.” The shimmering seers awareness gathered in her eyes, her knowing gaze. He knew she had felt the miniscule shift in the tides of the world. Whether he could force it into a flood that wiped away the darkness...that he could not yet determine, and doubted if she could see it either. There were too many factors, too many paths.

“What will you do, Mithrandir?” Celeborn's voice spoke softly. “Do you intend to pursue the Ring Bearer?”

He shook his head. A part of his heart yearned to follow Frodo, to see him safe. But they needed stealth, and his presence as he was now was like a beacon in the night. “No. The Ring is gone beyond my hands, now. There are other things that must be taken care of.”

Galadriel's eyes were vague, seeing into the distance. “The world of men.”

He nodded. “Gondor and Rohan are beset, by Sauruman and Sauron. The tide of evil must be slowed and turned, as best it can.”

“It will not save them, in the end.” Celeborn's voice was thoughtful.

“I fear not. But if they are strengthened, then they will better resist. It may be that they can stem the tide of darkness. In any case, far better to attempt it than to wait for the end. At the very least, the strength of the kingdoms of men may distract both Sauron and Sauruman from Frodo's quest, and allow him to get further on his way. I am buying time, and every second is precious.” He considered what he knew. “There is strength in men still. If it can be tapped, I daresay it will exceed even my hopes.”

“It is doubtful. But do you intend to summon Elessar to his rightful place?” Celeborn regarded him with curiosity.

“I do not know if it time for that yet.” He sighed. “I fear my first business is in Rohan. Gondor desperately needs allies, more than anything else, and Rohan is their only hope of that. More than that, Sauruman will soon attempt to destroy them, and it must be prevented, if it can.”

“You know the darkness already gathers in Rohan. A foul adviser, who holds Theoden's ear and speaks with Sauruman's words.” Galadriel's voice broke his thoughts.

He sighed heavily. “I know of whom you speak. That poison will have to be drawn. But there are other things as well. Theoden himself cannot face the might of Isengard alone.” He had one or two ideas about that, but no certainties.

“Regardless, how do you hope to reach them? It is a long road to Rohan, and time is of the essence. Will you take the river?” Celeborn's voice was concerned.

“No. I cannot hope to make it there in time, by river or on foot.” He sighed again. “I have asked the help of the eagles, to bear me at least so far, and give me aid in scouting the land.” He remembered the other soul he had summoned. “It is my hope that other aid will await me there. An old friend.”

“As you wish.” The elven lord bowed his head. “I trust you will at least let us provision you for the journey, and give you what supplies we may.”

“I would be most grateful. Gwaihir shall not make it here before tomorrow, at the earliest.”

Galadriel rose, and moved to the corner. “We will see to your needs. However, these two things you should bear, at the least. You will need them.” She turned, holding two long, wrapped bundles.

He unwrapped the first hesitantly, knowing what it was before he even opened it. A sword, but more than that, his sword, Glamdring. He had thought it lost.

Galadriel answered his thought. “It was retrieved from the mountain, as you were. It was much damaged, but our smiths have repaired it. It will serve you well.”

“It has already done so.” He had thought he would never wish to see the blade again, but now it brought him comfort. His companion in the face of so many difficult and impossible tasks. It felt right that it should follow him into battle once more. He turned his attention to the second item and began to unwrap it.

Power shivered across his senses, responsive and cool in his mind before he even finished unwinding it. It warned him, yet even so, he could only stare in wonder as the last covering fell away, to reveal a staff. Made of the silver-white mallorn wood, pulsing with life and light. The wood was smooth and cool in his hands, pulsing gently with a promise of power. He wrapped his hand around it and rose, feeling it's weight, it's solidity. It felt made for his hand, as if it had always been his.

He had not realized how much he had missed the comfort of his staff. Broken and burned in Moria, he thought it had been. And even if it had survived, he could not retrieve it. Nor would it have suited what he had become. But this...he lifted it, felt his power blaze through it, an easy connection between man and tool.

“It suits you.” Celeborn's voice was quiet.

“It does indeed.” He realized, with a faint flash of insight, who had wrought this gift for him. There were very few who could properly make a wizard's staff, and only one who could have sought the wood from the mallorn trees. He turned to Celeborn fully. “It is a generous gift, my lord Celeborn. I thank you, most profoundly.”

The lord inclined his head. “A fitting gift. And no more than you have earned, Mithrandir.” He studied the wizard, an odd expression on his face. “Though...perhaps Mithrandir does not suit you. You are no longer the Grey Pilgrim.”

Celeborn was one of the few who knew his proper name. Even so...he shook his head slightly. “For this task, better to keep the names I was known by.” A faint smile touched his face. “I am rather fond of the names I have borne, until now.”

“As you will.” He saw a smile on the face of both elven lords. “Is there aught else you will need for your journey? We will supply a change of clothing or two, and some travel rations.”

“That will have to do. For work such as this, best to travel light.” His thoughts went to the great horse Shadowfax, whom he had summoned from Rivendell. He would even now be running from the Last Homely House toward Rohan. But Shadowfax tended himself, and needed no grain. Gwaihir also would tend to his own needs. “There is nothing else.”

“Then rest. You will need your strength, Mithrandir.” Celeborn rose and laid a hand upon his shoulder in silent companionship. “Would that we could give you more time, but you will need all you can gain, and even that may not be enough.”

“I know well.” He sighed. It was a terrible burden. So little time. So much to do. Still, this was what he had been sent for. “If you will excuse me.” In these last hours, he wished only to wander Lothlorien and drink in it's peace. Celeborn nodded, as did Galadriel, and stood aside to let him pass.

He spent the day wandering, drinking in the peace. It soothed and refreshed his weary spirit. He found the place where his companions had stayed and stood a long while, sifting through the faint but still present emanations of their presence. A flicker of darkness, wrapped in strained nobility and confusion. Boromir. Legolas' shining strength and elven magic. Gimli's solid earthiness. Aragorn, bright as silver, strong as steel. Sam, solid and comforting, like the gardens he had tended in Shire, but with an edge of steel threaded through it. Merry and Pippen, twin points of bright inquisitive naivete, oddly soothing even as they made his heart ache. And darkness and light mixed, weary but strong. Frodo. His heart went out to the young hobbit. He whispered a soft prayer to the wind for him. He reached out, sought Frodo's mind, but darkness cloaked it. Still...he thought he would know, should he take grievous hurt or death. He hoped he would at least. As Frodo moved further toward Mordor, it would be harder.

It was dusk, drawing on true night, when he emerged from the hollow where the companions had stayed. He looked around, then began to move toward the main tree when a flicker caught his eye. Galadriel. He knew at once where she was going. Her scrying mirror. He hesitated a moment, then followed.

She was waiting for him, and he wasn't surprised. Of course she had known he was coming. He joined her. After a moment, he spoke softly. “Can you see anything?”

“Much is hidden in darkness. Still, the mirror shows much as well. You know, do you not?” She met his eyes.

He did. He had gazed in her water mirror before, spoken to her of her visions before. _'Some things it shows that are, some that have been, and some things it shows may yet come to pass.'_ He knew he should not ask, but he did so anyway. “Is there anything of Frodo?”

Her eyes went distant. “The Ring Bearer continues. But he has parted from the Company.”

Cold fear gripped him. “He is alone?”

“No. There is yet one with him.” A smile creased her face.

“Of course. Samwise Gamgee.” He did not need her nod of confirmation. He sighed. In the darkness here, he could speak his thoughts. “I fear for them.”

“Frodo is strong.” She touched the water mirror. “He has gazed in my pool. Even in the darkness, I will see him.” Her fingers traced the rim. “A true heart, and strong.” A sad smile. “Even now, he resists the power of the Ring, even enough to offer it to me.”

That startled him. “Frodo offered you the Ring?”

“Freely.” She met his eyes, and he saw in her eyes the struggle. It had been a true test for both hobbit and elven Lady. She had meant to test the Ring bearer's strength, and had her own tested in measure. “But I passed this test. When the darkness diminishes, I will go to the West.”

She was the last of the Elven ringbearers to face the choice. His finger traced over the band of the ring he had been given long ago by Ciridan Shipwright. How he had retained it after all that had happened, he had no idea, but it still was his to hold, and he took it no more lightly than he had from the first day Ciridan had slipped it onto his finger. He had denied the One Ring when offered it. Elrond had never been truly offered it, but neither had he taken it in Rivendell, though Frodo would have given it to him. He remembered Elrond's pale face at the end of Council and understood that part of that had been his passage through the fires of temptation. “So must all of us. Whether for good or ill, this will end the age of the rings of power.”

He turned away. “It is good that he still has such strength in him. And that Samwise is with him.” The more he reflected on it, the more he felt that if there was such thing as an absolutely incorruptible being, it was Samwise Gamgee.

She nodded. After a moment, he spoke again. “The others?”

“I cannot see clearly. There is darkness in the land that clouds the mirror. They have wandered into Shadow.” She traced the mirror again, her eyes distant. “It is in my mind, however, that you will see them once more. Soon.”

“It can be hoped for. I will desperately need whatever aid I can get. They are strong warriors, and strong is what will be needed.” It would be a risk, to lead Aragorn into the halls of Theoden and Denethor, particularly Denethor. Still, it could be done. And Aragorn was a persuasive man. Perhaps his presence could steady Theoden, who was already so badly shaken by the dark. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“When you see them, give them my regards.” She smiled warmly.

“I shall. Have you any message I should pass to them?” She was a seer, after all.

“Only warnings may I give.” She reached out to the mirror again and her eyes unfocused in what he recognized a seeing trance. “To Elessar, the Dunedain, I give these words....”

He listened quietly, committing her words to memory. The words she had for Aragorn were ominous, though he could think of one or two interpretations for them. He knew well of the 'road of the dead', the gateway to summon the dead who had betrayed their comrades in the last war, and waited for Isildur's heir to summon and release them. He knew too, who Aragorn's kinsmen were. The Dunedain, the Grey Company, including Elrond's sons, his distant cousins. They would come for him.

Her words for Legolas were easily understood. Every elf who heard the call of the sea felt the longing. He feared he would still have to take the elf to Gondor, but he would do his best to avoid it.

Gimli's message was simple, straightforward. Though he had to chuckle at the words 'lock-bearer'. He knew how suspicious the dwarf was of elves in general, even if he and Legolas had come to an accord. Lock-bearer. It was rather humorous.

Finally, Galadriel's eyes cleared. “I can give you no more.”

“Then that will do.” he sighed. “It was far more than I expected. Do you intend to send word to the North Country, to the Dunedain? Theirs will be a long journey.”

“It will be done, as soon as day dawns. If my kinsman in Rivendell has not already done so.”

That was quite possible. Elrond saw nearly as much as Galadriel, and would do what needed to be done. He sighed again, for the inevitability they all faced. The prices that would have to be paid to even had a chance of stopping the darkness and turning the tide.

Galadriel came around the mirror to touch his face, bring his gaze to hers. “You fear for them, all of them.”

“I do.” There was no point in denying it.

“You grieve. And you doubt your strength.” Her words were gentle, and that was all that kept them from being knives in his spirit.

“I do.” He turned away, feeling the wretched anguish and fear that he could only now admit. And he had to speak of it, if he was to survive it. “To save Rohan and Gondor both...it is a difficult task and one I fear may be beyond even me, even as I am. To do so I will have to face both Sauruman, and most assuredly the Nine. If not the Dark Lord himself.”

“You have strength enough for Sauruman. Indeed, I think you far surpass him. Even the Nine, I think, you have the strength for.”

He snorted. “Eight of them, yes. But their leader? He who was once the Witch King of Angmar? That I do not know.” He might have just a shade more power, but he doubted the Dark Rider would be driven to using his power as desperately as he knew he would be spending his. He had no doubt his adversary would wait until he was nearly spent before engaging him.

A gentle hand on his shoulder, turning him to look once more into those fathomless eyes. “You fear this trial.”

He nodded. “I fear it indeed. And yet, it must be faced. Or I must leave others I know have not the strength for it to face the peril, and that I will not do.” He could no more abandon those he had watched so faithfully as Mithrandir than he could have accepted Sauruman's suggestion that they join Sauron, a lifetime ago.

Dark concern filled her eyes. “This is a heavy burden.” She touched his forehead and jaw, tracing the lines graven there. “You will face much before the end. And I fear you will suffer deeply.” Sadness entered her expression. “There is much pain and loss on your road.”

He thought of Frodo carrying the Ring into peril and his wish that the burden was not the hobbit's to bear. “I know. But I would far rather suffer it than let another take my place.” Something about that truth, once spoken, eased his heart and firmed his resolve. Yes, he could take this task, not for necessity, not for his duty to Middle-Earth, but because of all those he desired to protect. Hobbits in the Shire. His friends and companions, grown so dear on their shared journey. This world he had so long watched over. Grey Pilgrim. Mithrandir. The wandering wizard. He had watched and fought long. He could not bear to give up now.

Her eyes softened and warmed, and her hands took his. Warmth, kindness and a sort of healing flowed into him from her touch. “You have more strength than you know. And there will be help on your road. Do not despair.” A small smile, and a voice in his mind. _'Whenever you need aid, you need only call, and I will come.'_

“I know.” He found a smile. He knew his burden was no less, but his heart was lighter than it had been since he had first awoken. “I shall not despair.” He would worry, and he was not foolish enough to say he would not fear, but that he thought he could say safely.

“No.” Her eyes were serene once more as she read his resolve. She clasped his hands a moment longer, then smiled tenderly at him, and brushed his hair back from his face. “Rest, until the dawn comes.”

“I shall.” He stood aside to let her pass before him. Once she had disappeared among the trees, he made his way to his own rooms and slept, at peace.

Dawn woke him, and he joined Lord and Lady for breakfast. He made a brief foray among the elves of Lorien, accepting their smiles and blessings and greetings, their gifts of food and water and little things. One craftsman presented him with a set of packs that could be either shoulder packs or saddle packs, and he put the other gifts inside, grateful for the consideration.

All too soon, he heard the call of a great eagle and looked up to see Gwaihir's distinctive form circling. “I see it is time for me to be on my way.”

There were nods all around. A last waving of hands and calling of farewells. Then he mounted the stairs to the high tree-top where he had so lately been delivered into Galadriel's care. Three steps from the top, he stopped and turned to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. His friends. “I thank you, for all you have done.” He raised his staff slightly in acknowledgment.

Celeborn bowed his head. “And we thank you, for all you have done and have yet to do.” He clasped his hand. “Safe journey, my friend.”

“My thanks.” He returned the clasp, then turned to Galadriel. “I thank you as well, my lady.”

“There is none required. It was a freely given gift.” She smiled warmly and traced his face as she had the night before. Then she leaned forward and touched her lips to his forehead in benediction. “I wish you safe journey. Know that my thoughts go with you. I will watch for you as often as I may.”

A precious gift, as dear in it's way as the light she had given Frodo. “Thank you.” He looked into her eyes one more time, sharing awareness, sharing hope and strength, such as it was, then turned and broke away to climb to the top of the tree. He lifted his arms, and Gwaihir swooped low. With a single smooth leap he was astride the great eagle. His breath caught as his body adjusted to the half-forgotten rhythms of flight. The eagle wheeled in the sky once more and he looked down upon the woods a final time. There at the platform, he could see the small figures of the Lord and Lady. Their presence and warmth blazed in his mind, a gentle farewell. He raised his arm in salute and goodbye. Then Gwaihir turned and pumped his wings, gaining altitude and turning toward Rohan. He lowered his arm to grip the feathers. His journey had begun. He had work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Over the years, I've wondered what Gandalf didn't say, when he told the story of his restoration. And so, I was inspired to write this.


End file.
